


In the Moment We're Lost and Found

by quixotesque



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Flirting, M/M, Slow Dancing, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-12-27 01:00:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18293651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quixotesque/pseuds/quixotesque
Summary: The balcony isn’t empty when Roxas steps out onto it. Behind him, further down the long hall, the gala goes on, softly thrumming music overlaid with more hectic conversation, and in front of him is Vanitas, a lone figure standing at the balustrade, limned delicately by evening light, his hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks.





	In the Moment We're Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you ignore my inability to describe dancing and focus on the rokuvan instead! Title is from Birdy's "Wings".

The balcony isn’t empty when Roxas steps out onto it. Behind him, further down the long hall, the gala goes on, softly thrumming music overlaid with more hectic conversation, and in front of him is Vanitas, a lone figure standing at the balustrade, limned delicately by evening light, his hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks.

Roxas pauses by the double doors, fingers curled around his glass of wine. 

He hadn’t seen it coming, this – intricate game he and Vanitas have been coyly playing for the past three months, pushing and pulling at each other, circling around with all the patient intensity of two animals on the hunt. He hadn’t thought that the spontaneous decision to sit next to Vanitas at one of Eraqus’s monthly dinners would somehow spark this tension that now floods the air whenever they share the same space—a sweet, heavy tension that simmers electric against Roxas's skin, restless and humming with unforeseen possibilities.

They’re not quite friends and never have been, drifting idly in a liminal space since their college days, content to alternate between casual insults and just as casual dismissals. It would have been worse had they met when they were even younger and untempered by time, Vanitas too dangerously volatile, a knack for cruelty in his cutting voice and bruise-painted knuckles, and Roxas still in the middle of learning how to tame his own wild tendencies.

But ever since that evening at Eraqus's where Vanitas's golden gaze had been the brightest thing in the room and where Roxas might have let slip one or two smiles more than he'd meant to, they drift in an entirely different kind of liminal space. Vanitas’s eyes linger on him for too long, shameless and caressing, like Roxas is all he cares to look at. Roxas catches the sultry huskiness that creeps into his own voice, breathing flirtation into ordinary words, transmuting them into siren songs.  

Every glance and word and moment feels strangely significant, even as they carefully maintain a distance between them and share nothing of this inexplicable turn of events to their friends.

“Are you just going to stand there like a creep?” Vanitas asks, which is really the nicest invitation he’s capable of.

"It's good to see you, too," Roxas replies, ambling over. He makes no effort to hide his unrepentant amusement at Vanitas’s dourness. “You look like you’re at a funeral. Your own funeral.”

“Wrong. If it was my funeral, I’d actually be happier right now.”

“You, happy? Didn’t think that was possible. I’m assuming your uncle is responsible for tricking you into attending?”

“Xehanort,” Vanitas says, because he’s never been willing to acknowledge his uncle by anything other than his name, “is big on keeping up appearances, especially when it coincides with his forty year old crush on Eraqus.”

“Now going into year forty-one. That’s dedication.”

Vanitas scoffs. “Can’t imagine being into someone for that long.”

“No?” Roxas says mildly, glancing over the immaculate green grounds below them and then sweeping his gaze up towards a softly glowing sky burnished bronze from sunset’s approach. He senses Vanitas looking at him. Trying to dissect and decipher him.

That tension—sweet, heavy, electric—is already steadily rebuilding itself between them.

"And you can?" Vanitas asks.

"I'm usually a fan of commitment."

“Sounds boring.”

The response doesn’t surprise Roxas any. Vanitas leans towards more transitory affairs, things over and done with by dawn, washed off without a second thought under the spray of water. No apartment of his would be likely to yield an earring forgotten under the bedside table or a well-read book riddled with someone else’s handwriting, the detritus of former lovers.

“That depends, doesn’t it,” Roxas says.

Vanitas turns to face him, a hand slipping out of his pocket to rest casually on the balustrade. “On what?”

Roxas mirrors him, leaning his hip against cold stone. “On whether or not you choose someone boring, obviously,” he replies, half-hiding his smirk behind his glass. 

Vanitas’s lips twitch up. Even with his expressions so often arrogant, he’s always been striking, almost aristocratic with his elegant cheekbones and strong jawline and conspicuous with his unruly, pitch-dark hair. Tonight, in his all-black tailored attire, he's debonair.

Roxas makes sure to not say any of this out loud, drowning it all under a small flood of tart wine.  

“Shouldn’t you be back in there with the others?” Vanitas asks.

“Everyone I know is already dancing. Thought I’d get some fresh air, instead.”

“Give it a minute. They’ll realize they’re missing an idiot and come looking.”

“You shouldn’t talk about yourself like that,” Roxas counters breezily. This is how their conversations usually go: a nimble back-and-forth until one of them is made to falter and then they begin again.

Vanitas pauses. “I walked into that one, didn’t I.”

“You really did.”

Vanitas narrows his eyes and redirects his attention to the lambent view before them, but he doesn’t seem as irked by his misstep as he should’ve.

The strains of a mellow melody flow in gently from inside like idle visitors. Roxas recognizes it as a song Xion’s fond of, humming it every so often as she walks around their shared apartment. He watches as Vanitas absentmindedly taps along to it, thumb striking softly against the balustrade. Within seconds, an idea both absurd and magnificent forms in Roxas’s mind, lodging there adamantly, and he looks over the balcony, contemplating its perfect size.

Next, he contemplates Vanitas.

“What,” Vanitas says gruffly when he notices.

Roxas lets out a wicked little curl of a smile. "I _did_ want to dance, though,” he says, sly.

“And?"

“And I’m not sure why should I wait for someone inside when you’re already free.”

“Fuck, no,” Vanitas says promptly, “and fuck, no, again. Fuck, no, a third time. I’m not dancing.”

“You scared of something?”

“Even if I _was_ the type to dance, why would I do it with another guy.”

“Oh, I get it," Roxas says, nodding seemingly understandingly. " _You’re_ not scared. It’s just your fragile masculinity that’s scared.”

Vanitas makes a sound of derision. “I stick to my strengths, that’s all.”

“So what you’re actually saying is...you don't know how to dance.”

“I’m not dancing,” Vanitas states again, which is confirmation enough.

“I don’t mind teaching you, if you want,” Roxas offers.

"You're not serious."

"Why not? No one’s out here to see us.”

“Anyone could come in. Besides, _I’m_ here.”

Roxas rolls his eyes. “You’ll hardly have to flee the country in shame just because we danced together _alone_.” Setting his glass down on the balustrade, Roxas decides to at least spare Vanitas the great horror of offering him his hand. “Come on. Let me show you."

Vanitas eyes Roxas’s glass of wine, dubious. “Are you drunk? You’re not usually this stupid.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. Otherwise, I might push you off this balcony on account of being drunk apparently.”  

"I might prefer that," Vanitas says. “Xehanort tried to make me take formal lessons back when I was a kid and he still thought he could groom me into his perfect little heir.” He smiles thinly. “Glad to say none of it worked.”

Roxas imagines it: a younger Vanitas, reedy and still growing into himself, his eyes too large in his child's face, his mouth angry. His foot remorselessly stomping on his dance teacher’s. It’s an image Roxas finds inordinately endearing. He catches, too, what Vanitas isn't saying—the rebellion against his uncle that he tries to stage in small ways even now—but Roxas keeps that observation to himself. He leans in, instead, as if to share a secret, and says, “What if I give you my word that I have no plans to turn you into my perfect little heir?”

Vanitas makes a harsh, coughing sound that sounds suspiciously like laughter ruthlessly seized and cut off before it can spill free. “Yeah, you better not,” he says, except now it’s him contemplating Roxas. “What do I get out of it if I agree?”

“Why am I not surprised you want to turn this into a deal.”

“Why wouldn’t I? I’m going to need some kind of compensation if I have to dance with you.”

“Wow, jackass, all right. All right, you wanna talk compensation?” Roxas says, moving to position himself at the center of the balcony. “Show me you’re serious about the dancing first and then we can see about the compensation.”

“I didn’t realize you were _that_ desperate to dance with me.”

“Now you’re just making shit up to flatter yourself.”

Vanitas grabs Roxas’s abandoned drink, draining what’s left of it in two long swallows and dropping it back onto the balustrade carelessly. “Don’t even think about trying to twirl or dip me,” he warns, striding over.

Under the sharp flare of triumph, Roxas tries not to grin too hard. “No twirling or dipping,” he promises and raises his left hand. “Give me your right.”

Vanitas’s fingers are long and slender. Calloused. They thread through Roxas’s with a strong grip. Roxas rests his free hand on the small of Vanitas’s back and Vanitas closes his on Roxas’s shoulder. The distance between them is quickly snapped shorter, growing dense with the warmth radiating from their bodies. Roxas inhales and his breath brims with the spicy musk of Vanitas’s scent.

“Cozy?” Vanitas asks, a smirk hanging askew on his lips.  

“Are you?” Roxas returns archly. Vanitas’s smirk grows wider. “It’s not exactly ballroom dancing they’re doing inside. Just swaying and shuffling around in one spot. You’ll see how simple it is.”

Although it isn’t simple at first, but jerky and awkward and they stumble like ungainly deer learning to walk. Vanitas is uncooperative or merely bad at following instructions; Roxas persists and gradually Vanitas loses enough of his discomfort to comply.  

“One, two, three, four, back the other way, five, six, seven, eight—there we go. Not so hard, is it?”

“I feel like an idiot,” Vanitas mutters. “I look like an idiot.”

“I didn’t realize that that’s a new thing for you,” Roxas replies, ignoring the glare Vanitas shoots at him. He presses Vanitas's hand once, encouraging. “You’re doing fine. You’ve got it. Let’s try it properly with the music now.”

“I thought we were already doing it properly,” Vanitas says flatly.

“Oh, no, your torment hasn’t even begun.” Roxas cocks his head, waiting, listening out for the thin slice of song that’ll guide them. It's a string melody this time. “All right. Ready?”

“No.”

Still, Vanitas moves along when Roxas does, finding the rhythm with much more ease.

Roxas hums, pleased. He watches Vanitas’s feet stepping in time with his. “Look at that, we’re dancing,” he says, lips quirking happily, and glances up again. Vanitas is looking back at him as if his focus has been on Roxas all along. "Told you it was simple."  

“I’ll make sure to put my new skill on my résumé,” Vanitas says.

“Planning to dance more, are you?”

Vanitas gives him a _look_ and Roxas laughs. Laughs again as he says, “Should we try a turn?” and a vicious scowl instantly twists up Vanitas’s face. “A turn, not a twirl. Just follow my lead.” He soon has them moving in a slow circle, smirking still at the indignation Vanitas had expressed. “See? Your dignity is still intact.”

“You’re enjoying this too much,” Vanitas says accusingly.

“No fucking way. In fact, an argument could be made that I need to enjoy it even more.”

“For your sake, you better not be thinking of telling anyone about this.”

“I doubt anyone would actually believe me,” Roxas says, “but your reputation’s safe with me anyway.” It's strange and selfish of him, maybe, but there's also a distinct pleasure in possessing a piece of knowledge about Vanitas that no one else does.

Vanitas raises a dark eyebrow. “I expected you to argue more.”

Roxas shrugs with one shoulder. “It’s called being nice. I’m aware that’s a foreign concept for you.”

Vanitas doesn’t reply. Doesn’t tense or shove at Roxas, either, so Roxas surmises he hasn’t caused any real offence.

It’s curiously like they’ve been cut off from the rest of the world, occupying their own piece of land, isolated in this moment of time that seems to stretch out on and on. Roxas’s attention narrows down to specific points: the vividness of Vanitas’s eyes, the surprising fullness—sensuality _—_ of his mouth. How alluring it can be when it’s not wearing cynical shapes. How much more alluring it would be if it were kissed swollen and left behind slick.

When the song of the violins drifts into its final notes, Roxas almost doesn't notice, but then their dance devolves into a complete stop. "There," he says. "We're done. Your torment’s over.”

He doesn't pull away. Neither does Vanitas. They stand there, connected by their hands, their eyes. Caught.       

It’s Vanitas who moves. Abruptly, he turns Roxas around and pulls him in so that Roxas’s back collides firmly against Vanitas’s tightly muscled torso, caged against the great warmth of his body. A jolt leaps fast and sudden all through Roxas, then settles more tenderly in his belly _—_ a stoked fire, the soft beginnings of a conflagration.

“Music’s still playing,” Vanitas says into Roxas’s ear, his gravelly voice smoothing some into raw, rough silk that drags along Roxas's nerves. He’s got an arm tight around Roxas’s middle now. Their linked hands remain linked, resettling close to Roxas’s clavicle.

Roxas wonders if Vanitas will go a step further. If he’ll rock himself against Roxas, slow and dirty, and turn this into something filthy and fitting for darkened clubs and darkened bedrooms.

Vanitas doesn’t. He merely resumes their swaying and somehow that’s more surprising.

“Are you pushing your luck, Vanitas?” Roxas asks, keeping his tone light, steady, as if he isn't aware that a small turn of his face to the side would tangle his breath with Vanitas’s. Would align their mouths.   

“Have you met me? Pushing my luck is what I do. Since you haven’t punched me yet, I figure I’m doing OK.”

“I can always change my mind.”  

“And I can be nice, too, Roxas, when I want to be, but—” Vanitas’s crooked smile presses itself against the shell of Roxas’s ear, his breath fanning warmly down Roxas's neck, ”—you’re not interested in _nice_. If you were, you wouldn’t talk to me at all.”  

“Maybe I’m just bored,” Roxas says glibly, “and using you to pass the time.”

“You’re not always the nice guy, either. I appreciate that about you.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that. You’ll make a guy feel special.”

Vanitas chuckles, a low, dark, purring sound.

Dislodged from its initial place on Vanitas’s back, Roxas’s right hand hangs empty by his side. He strokes his fingertips feathery soft over Vanitas’s wrist where it rests over Roxas’s ribs, noting with smug gratification the deep breath Vanitas takes at that, as if the delicate touch had hit like a bolt of lightning.

Too slow and not slow enough, they sway together in silence. Vanitas is firm and broad behind him. A shroud of heat and scent around him. Roxas knows that it's desire rising in him between each swing of their bodies, the uncurling of it steady and languid, a decadent kind of smoke he could luxuriate in. It’ll fog up his head, drown him in a haze of only Vanitas, if Roxas lets it and Roxas is closer to letting it. 

“Why me?” Vanitas asks eventually, almost gently.   

“What do you mean?” Roxas says.

“Why pick me to dance with? I’m nobody’s first choice.”

Nothing flippant or mocking in Vanitas’s voice this time. Only genuine interest. Confusion, even. 

“You’re my choice,” Roxas says carefully. Sincerely.

“Why did you really come out here?”

“Why did you really agree to dance with me?”

They’re not swaying anymore. Not moving at all, except for the rise and fall of their chests, and this is even more dangerous, because it’s too intimate, the way they’re standing now, simply pressed together without the pretext of a dance. It’s intimacy that Vanitas shirks and that Roxas hadn’t anticipated and yet somehow they’re here anyway.

This could go so wrong, he thinks. This could be catastrophic. They’re both men with demons. They have uglier sides to them armed with sharp claws and sharp teeth, buried but perhaps not deep enough, and they could tear each other apart.

It could also go wondrously right, their rough edges and jaggedness clicking into place finally in ways they never would’ve done with anyone else, making them into something seamless at last. Complete and coherent.

Roxas finally turns his head, just enough to glance up and meet those molten liquid eyes, the hot, naked craving in them. A craving that Roxas put there, that is only for him. Vanitas’s hands on his body grip tighter. They’re so close. So close that Vanitas’s nearness is almost disorientating. Intoxicating. There's no music now, only the frenetic beat of Roxas's heart. He feels the tautness of his own body, the anticipation pulled tight in him, and knows it would be easy to sink into Vanitas and his inviting warmth, his tantalizing scent.

“Roxas? Are you out here?”

Xion. Her gently inquiring voice breaks them out from under the hypnosis of the moment.

“I’m here,” Roxas calls out, moving away, shuffling back to the balustrade to collect his empty glass of wine. He immediately feels colder without the heat of Vanitas’s body encompassing him.

Xion pokes her head out, the pearl beads at her ears dangling with soft chimes. She blinks, surprised, at seeing Vanitas. “Oh, hey.” Her inquisitive glance slides between them; if she picks up on anything, she tactfully doesn’t mention it. “You guys want to come back in? There’s cake!”

“How can I refuse cake?” Roxas says. “Finally something to make your night worth it, Vanitas.”

Vanitas is insouciant once again, the layers of him sealed shut. His hands dip back into his pockets. He turns to leave. Then he turns back around. Says, "Maybe that's already happened," in a quiet murmur that carries itself to Roxas only and sears deep and indelible into his mind.

It’s this same little murmur that sits crackling and crackling in Roxas throughout the rest of the evening, eclipsing all else. It resounds in him even after the gala has concluded and they’re all set free into the cool night air and it makes him walk, purposeful, not to his own car, but to where he sees a glimpse of unruly, pitch-dark hair.

“Hey,” he says and waits for Vanitas to turn around before fisting a hand into the lapel of Vanitas’s jacket, pulling him forward. It's a firm, hot, claiming kiss. Vanitas tastes of the same wine Roxas had been drinking earlier: sharp, sweet, but this iteration of it infinitely more satisfying, a new kind of ambrosia that only inspires a new kind of thirst. “There," Roxas says, easing off, however reluctant, "that’s your compensation."

Vanitas encloses Roxas’s fist with his own hand to keep him in place. “And that’s all I get?”  

“If you wanted more, you should’ve danced with me again inside.”

“I wasn’t aware of those terms.”

“Remember to negotiate next time.”

"This Friday, then," Vanitas says as if issuing a challenge. "7PM. I’ll pick you up at your place. We can _negotiate_ over dinner.” His hunger-darkened gaze drags over Roxas’s mouth. “And then do it some more after dinner.”

“After dinner, too? You’re pushing your luck again.”

Vanitas smiles, roguish and self-assured. “Oh, something tells me I'm still not.”

Roxas smirks back. Freeing his hand, he lets go of Vanitas’s jacket and brushes over the creased fabric. “Good night, Vanitas. I enjoyed our dance, too,” he says, and there it is in his voice once more—the sultry huskiness, the siren song.

Strolling back to where Xion is waiting by his car, questions in the expectant arch of her eyebrow, Roxas doesn’t bother to conceal his smile, knowing Vanitas is still watching him, eyes lingering, shameless and caressing, like Roxas is all he cares to look at.


End file.
